


Reap What You Sow

by gacrux



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Character Study, Gen, an attempt anyway, chapter 167
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:18:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gacrux/pseuds/gacrux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When Mana said he loved me, did he mean me? Or...”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reap What You Sow

**Author's Note:**

> A snippet of chapter 167 from Cross' perspective.

The heartbreak on the kid's face was poignant. Like a tangible thing, it pulled up at the corners of his mouth. Allen's face slipped into a defensive, self-deprecating smile, and Cross frowned at it. This wasn't quite how he expected the conversation to go. Not that he ever planned on having it in the first place, but still, Allen - the brat, the urchin, his idiot apprentice - he was no pessimist. He never looked like he did now, not even after Mana died. This was beyond self-loathing.

“So that's what that was...” Eyes downcast, the smile fell from his face. Cross was going to break the silence, couldn't stand another second of this self-pitying nonsense, when Allen spoke again.

“When Mana said he loved me, did he mean me? Or...”

It took some time for the question to sink in, really. The ash flaked from the butt of his cigarette to the carpet, smouldering weakly before puttering out. Cross had never hated Mana more in his entire life than in this one brief moment staring at the top of Allen's down-turned head, shoulders crumpled inward, looking weaker now than he ever had after Mana shriveled up and died like an idiot. The picture in his mind now was of a boy in the snow, hair white as the flakes raining down from above, covered in dirt, blood, wearing a ridiculous clown costume all the same.

“Which was it...?” Allen tried again. Cross despised how familiar he was with the hollowness in his voice.

So, he explained the best he could, without giving too much away. He could explain that Mana changed after what happened with Neah, that something went wrong in his head. He could make it easier on Allen, make it less fucking horrible. Normally, in any other circumstance, he would have given the idiot a straight, honest answer. But that kind of thing, in Allen's present mental state – it might well have killed him.

Stupidly, he crouched down and leaned forward, cradling the back of Allen's head like he used to ages and ages ago, pulling him into a half-assed (if painfully genuine) embrace. Cross wondered about sacrifice, about futility. Allen was walking down a road the messiah himself would balk at. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for him, no easier way out. Cross couldn't bring himself to say as much.

Instead, he wound up saying something a bit worse, by his approximation.

“What would you do if I told you... you'll have to kill someone you love when you become the Fourteenth?”

Allen stiffened immediately but didn't recoil. Was he that lonely, or was there something he didn't want Cross to know? It was hard to tell. Even as a snot-nosed kid, Allen had been painfully private about some things. How he understood his life, the frequent nightmares he woke screaming from, the memories of his life before, of Mana – he never spoke a word of any of it, not even when Cross tried to intimidate the information out of him.

There were, of course, other ways. And Cross Marian _always_ got his way.

When he was younger, Allen used to talk in his sleep. During his nightmares, almost exclusively. That was how Cross came to know Allen, by minute degrees. He had wanted to know, damn it, and Allen was locked up tighter than a safe about it all during the day. What right did he have to keep things from his sole benefactor? So Cross didn't wake him, felt marginally dirtier for it, and learned that Allen really, truly loved Mana Campbell. For better or for worse, the brat was totally genuine.

And Cross wondered what Allen would do now, having reason to doubt the love he depended on for so long. It was a sobering thought.

Finally, the kid pulled away, remained sat squarely on the ground like a petulant child, and took a deep breath. Cross wondered when he learned to be so... enduring.

And then the denial started in, of course. The yelling, kicking, screaming kind, as the guards tried to drag him out of the room. He supposed Allen learned from the best. 

"I don't care about the Fourteenth! I won't let him have this!"

A moment of clarity. One in which Cross was tempted to agree with him. There was something persuasive about Allen's serious tone, the spark of determination his eyes. It reminded him, absurdly, of Neah. When things took a turn for the worse, that was always when Neah remembered his courage. Allen was the very same. Cross couldn't tell if Neah was affecting Allen, or if Allen was an overly determined brat by the very nature of his soul.

Maybe a bit of both.

Cross watched Allen as the guards took him away, the sting of melancholy like thorns. How many times, Cross wondered, would Allen have to repeat that statement in order to convince himself of its truth. How many times before saying it wasn't enough. How many times until nothing was enough. How long until Allen began to lose himself. How long until Allen stopped fighting. How long until their sacrificial lamb bled out onto the altar.

Cross shook his head, plucked a cigarette from his pocket, struck a match to light it.

Fate certainly was a fickle bitch.


End file.
